“You are too good to them.”

The witch is watching the villagers digging up potatoes in the fields. She knows of the winding rows of cabbages where once there were mines. Maybe she knows of the apple trees. Bitter fruit that lies in hay under every roof for the cold months.

I doubt she cares about the wild berries but she knows of the babies born. Every year there are a few more. I must report each one.

I have made this place safe. To the north is the mountain, forbidding and difficult to traverse. A deep river guards the east. The rest is thick forest patrolled by wolves whose cubs have lain in dens lined with my hair. They played and chewed with balls rolled tightly with the strands. Breathing in the particles. Laying the connections. The wolves take the offerings of a weak spring lamb or a scouting party armed with knives and guns. Wolves, like me, are used to being hungry. They are always wary but we cooperate well. We have an understanding.

Out in the glade the locals finish lifting their crop from the soft loamy soil. A woman wraps her babe against the late afternoon chill. She looks up at the tower and holds the infant closer. An old man limps to the foot of my tower, lays a woven basket at the base. When he has gone I drop down a rope of hair to snag the offering. Potatoes, wild carrots, fennel and a hunk of rough bread.

“They are good to me,” I say.

I offer her a heel of bread. She sniffs at it, takes a bite. I imagine she is calculating the nutrient value. She chews slowly. Maybe the bread holds memories for her. Then she shifts, her face changes. She is back to her mission.

“Let me get your rations.”

I try not to act like an excited child but I’m always on the verge of diving on the provisions the witch has brought. Perhaps there are books. Maybe there is sugar. It is not predictable what I will get.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

She has brought whiskey and coffee and rations for another few months. I’ve been drinking coffee for years but the whiskey is new. I like the birds to leave me when she’s here. They shelter in eaves and branches. Little hearts beating slowly as they dream. Outside, an owl flits about in the night, scouting for me while I listen to the witch.

I look at her grey hairs, like the man who left me food today. His battle days are over. She is still the strong woman who took me from the siege 14 years ago. She is the woman who delivered me to the program. And she was the one who asked me:

“Are you sure?”

I was. I went into the tower of my own free will.

The whiskey burns my throat. The witch and I laugh. She screws the lid on the bottle.

Out in the night, nine kilometres away, a wagon rolls up to the forest boundary. The wolves howl. The wagon stops and does not enter. In the trees I land my night birds. The wagon is covered. The wolves smell only one. The stranger settles down in their wagon. Sensible.

I leave the stranger sleep and send a wolf to howl a few miles off as if he is not being watched, although two stay on point to check this new one.

The witch settles down to sleep too. I keep linens she can stretch out on and when it’s cold I have more blankets. Her breathing is even and deep, I send a strand as fine as spider web behind her left ear. Binding, binding. Perhaps I can help her some day because she will not always be so strong.

I draw water from the well for her to wash with in the morning and continue my watch. There is no movement from the wagon. No need to bother the witch.

With the light she stirs. She eats quickly and arranges her pack, now much lighter, to continue her journey. I lower her down to the ground and monitor her retreat as I also note the occupant of the wagon stirring. Their paths will not cross. I sprinkle breadcrumbs for the birds and wait for their return.

I send a rook to the villagers. It drops their basket with my note that a wagon is coming. Then I draw back the forest cover to show a path before the horse is hitched. When the old man limps up to the stranger I listen to them making exchanges. He shares news of the world outside as they study his goods.

From my birds eye view I see him showing implements and cloth. The villagers know that I value books and they barter for all we need. He takes sacks of potatoes and the jams they can spare, and he says he will stay a few nights. He asks about the green tower and they are circumspect.

“It’s old tech,” the head woman says, “best to leave it be.”

But that night the traveler walks to the foot of the tower. He watches the birds flying in and out and I watch him.